SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHTEST.

PART II.Years passed; the boy a man had grown,And shadowy things of fearWith many an ill his path had strown;Foes trooping came, and friends had flown,But one white wing, to him unknown,Kept ever hovering near.It was a lovely sight to see,By those who watched above,That Spirit glorious and freeIn such an humble ministry,Unfalteringly, unfalteringly,Pursue his work of love.When the worn youth lay down to rest,The Angel stood beside;And stole the burden from his breast,And soothed his wearied sense to rest,Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed,And blissful dreams supplied.Once on a mountain peak stood he,A high and rugged steep;Where many dangerous shapes there be,And many things most fair to see,While shouting crowds bent low the knee,And broke wild Echo’s sleep.Pride centered in his burning eye,Pride mantled on his brow;“Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?”Ah! he has climbed a step too high!For giddily, bewilderingly,His brain is whirling now.But ever that pure Watcher brightPleads softly in his ear,“Think, mortal, of the coming night!Think of the mildew and the blight;Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,Dimmed by thy dallying here!”He hears, and lo! his pulses wildAre hushed, and in his veinsThe riot ebbs; things which beguiled,Seem heaps of mist about him piled;He bends his knee, a little child,And tears efface his stains.

PART II.

Years passed; the boy a man had grown,And shadowy things of fearWith many an ill his path had strown;Foes trooping came, and friends had flown,But one white wing, to him unknown,Kept ever hovering near.

Years passed; the boy a man had grown,

And shadowy things of fear

With many an ill his path had strown;

Foes trooping came, and friends had flown,

But one white wing, to him unknown,

Kept ever hovering near.

It was a lovely sight to see,By those who watched above,That Spirit glorious and freeIn such an humble ministry,Unfalteringly, unfalteringly,Pursue his work of love.

It was a lovely sight to see,

By those who watched above,

That Spirit glorious and free

In such an humble ministry,

Unfalteringly, unfalteringly,

Pursue his work of love.

When the worn youth lay down to rest,The Angel stood beside;And stole the burden from his breast,And soothed his wearied sense to rest,Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed,And blissful dreams supplied.

When the worn youth lay down to rest,

The Angel stood beside;

And stole the burden from his breast,

And soothed his wearied sense to rest,

Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed,

And blissful dreams supplied.

Once on a mountain peak stood he,A high and rugged steep;Where many dangerous shapes there be,And many things most fair to see,While shouting crowds bent low the knee,And broke wild Echo’s sleep.

Once on a mountain peak stood he,

A high and rugged steep;

Where many dangerous shapes there be,

And many things most fair to see,

While shouting crowds bent low the knee,

And broke wild Echo’s sleep.

Pride centered in his burning eye,Pride mantled on his brow;“Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?”Ah! he has climbed a step too high!For giddily, bewilderingly,His brain is whirling now.

Pride centered in his burning eye,

Pride mantled on his brow;

“Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?”

Ah! he has climbed a step too high!

For giddily, bewilderingly,

His brain is whirling now.

But ever that pure Watcher brightPleads softly in his ear,“Think, mortal, of the coming night!Think of the mildew and the blight;Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,Dimmed by thy dallying here!”

But ever that pure Watcher bright

Pleads softly in his ear,

“Think, mortal, of the coming night!

Think of the mildew and the blight;

Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,

Dimmed by thy dallying here!”

He hears, and lo! his pulses wildAre hushed, and in his veinsThe riot ebbs; things which beguiled,Seem heaps of mist about him piled;He bends his knee, a little child,And tears efface his stains.

He hears, and lo! his pulses wild

Are hushed, and in his veins

The riot ebbs; things which beguiled,

Seem heaps of mist about him piled;

He bends his knee, a little child,

And tears efface his stains.

PART III.The babe, the youth, was bent and gray,A feeble man and old;Death stood beside him as he lay;No mourner there his breath would stay,Or guide him on his untrod way,When lip and heart were cold.He loved, had served the God of heaven,But death’s a fearful thing:And when all earth-wrought ties are riven,When back to dust the dust is given,The soul which long with sin has striven,May shrink to meet the King.He trusted; but still shivering clung,Where long he’d been a guest;Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung;The scared soul on the hushed lip hung,Then lay, soft wings about it flung,Upon the Angel’s breast.

PART III.

The babe, the youth, was bent and gray,A feeble man and old;Death stood beside him as he lay;No mourner there his breath would stay,Or guide him on his untrod way,When lip and heart were cold.

The babe, the youth, was bent and gray,

A feeble man and old;

Death stood beside him as he lay;

No mourner there his breath would stay,

Or guide him on his untrod way,

When lip and heart were cold.

He loved, had served the God of heaven,But death’s a fearful thing:And when all earth-wrought ties are riven,When back to dust the dust is given,The soul which long with sin has striven,May shrink to meet the King.

He loved, had served the God of heaven,

But death’s a fearful thing:

And when all earth-wrought ties are riven,

When back to dust the dust is given,

The soul which long with sin has striven,

May shrink to meet the King.

He trusted; but still shivering clung,Where long he’d been a guest;Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung;The scared soul on the hushed lip hung,Then lay, soft wings about it flung,Upon the Angel’s breast.

He trusted; but still shivering clung,

Where long he’d been a guest;

Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung;

The scared soul on the hushed lip hung,

Then lay, soft wings about it flung,

Upon the Angel’s breast.

SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHTEST.

POPULAR SONG FROM

MARITANA.

COMPOSED BY W. V. WALLACE.

PRESENTED BY J. G. OSBOURN, NO. 112 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILAD’A.

Scenes that are brightestMay charm awhile;Hearts which are lightest,And eyes that smile;Yet

Scenes that are brightest

May charm awhile;

Hearts which are lightest,

And eyes that smile;

Yet

o’er them, above us,Tho’ nature beam,With none to love us,How sad They seem,With none to love us,How sad they seem.

o’er them, above us,

Tho’ nature beam,

With none to love us,

How sad They seem,

With none to love us,

How sad they seem.

Second Verse.Words cannot scatterThe thoughts we fear;For though they flatter,They mock the ear.Hopes will still deceive usWith tearful cost,||:And when they leave usThe heart is lost!:||

Second Verse.

Words cannot scatterThe thoughts we fear;For though they flatter,They mock the ear.Hopes will still deceive usWith tearful cost,||:And when they leave usThe heart is lost!:||

Words cannot scatter

The thoughts we fear;

For though they flatter,

They mock the ear.

Hopes will still deceive us

With tearful cost,

||:And when they leave us

The heart is lost!:||

THE STRICKEN.

———

BY ROBT. T. CONRAD.

———

Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and in misery.Psalms.

Heavy!Heavy! Oh, my heartSeems a cavern deep and drear,From whose dark recesses start,Flutteringly, like birds of night,Throes of passion, thoughts of fear,Screaming in their flight;Wildly o’er the gloom they sweep,Spreading a horror dim—a wo that cannot weep!Weary! Weary! What is lifeBut a spectre-crowded tomb?Startled with unearthly strife—Spirits fierce in conflict met,In the lightning and the gloom,The agony and sweat;Passions wild and powers insane,And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain!Gloomy—gloomy is the day;Tortured, tempest-tost the night;Fevers that no founts allay—Wild and wildering unrest—Blessings festering into blight—A gored and gasping breast!From their lairs what terrors start,At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake of the heart!Hopeless! Hopeless! Every pathIs with ruins thick bestrown;Hurtling bolts have fallen to scatheAll the greenness of my heart;And I now am Misery’s own—We never more shall part!My spirit’s deepest, darkest waveWrithes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! Sleep! The grave! The grave!

Heavy!Heavy! Oh, my heart

Seems a cavern deep and drear,

From whose dark recesses start,

Flutteringly, like birds of night,

Throes of passion, thoughts of fear,

Screaming in their flight;

Wildly o’er the gloom they sweep,

Spreading a horror dim—a wo that cannot weep!

Weary! Weary! What is lifeBut a spectre-crowded tomb?Startled with unearthly strife—Spirits fierce in conflict met,In the lightning and the gloom,The agony and sweat;Passions wild and powers insane,And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain!

Weary! Weary! What is life

But a spectre-crowded tomb?

Startled with unearthly strife—

Spirits fierce in conflict met,

In the lightning and the gloom,

The agony and sweat;

Passions wild and powers insane,

And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain!

Gloomy—gloomy is the day;Tortured, tempest-tost the night;Fevers that no founts allay—Wild and wildering unrest—Blessings festering into blight—A gored and gasping breast!From their lairs what terrors start,At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake of the heart!

Gloomy—gloomy is the day;

Tortured, tempest-tost the night;

Fevers that no founts allay—

Wild and wildering unrest—

Blessings festering into blight—

A gored and gasping breast!

From their lairs what terrors start,

At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake of the heart!

Hopeless! Hopeless! Every pathIs with ruins thick bestrown;Hurtling bolts have fallen to scatheAll the greenness of my heart;And I now am Misery’s own—We never more shall part!My spirit’s deepest, darkest waveWrithes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! Sleep! The grave! The grave!

Hopeless! Hopeless! Every path

Is with ruins thick bestrown;

Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe

All the greenness of my heart;

And I now am Misery’s own—

We never more shall part!

My spirit’s deepest, darkest wave

Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! Sleep! The grave! The grave!

ROSABELLE.

———

BY “CARO.”

———

A thing all life and sunshine,A glad and happy child,With spirits ever changing,Half earnest and half wild;As fleet a little fairyAs ever graced a dell,Or frolicked in a blossom,Is our sweet Rosabelle.I wish that you could meet her;Her clear and happy eyesWould break upon your vision,Like light from Paradise!You’d know her in a moment—You couldn’t help it well—For there’s no otherlikeher—Our own, dear Rosabelle!Her brow is just as open,And sunny as the day;And curls are dancing o’er it,In their unfettered play.Ah! loveliness and beautyHave thrown their brightest spell,Around our darling blossom—Our witching Rosabelle!Her mouth is made for kisses,And when she lifts her face,She seems to ask the tribute,With her unconscious grace.Her lips are ripe and glowing,With just that pouting swellThat painters like to copy—Our peerless Rosabelle!Her voice is soft and child-like,Yet gleeful as a bird’s;I love to list the cadenceOf her half-warbled words.Her laugh is like the musicOf some sweet, silver bell;I hear it in the passage,And know ’tis Rosabelle.A thing all life and sunshine,A glad and happy child,With spirits ever changing,Half earnest and half wild;As fleet a little fairyAs ever graced a dell,Or frolicked in a blossom,Is our sweet Rosabelle!

A thing all life and sunshine,

A glad and happy child,

With spirits ever changing,

Half earnest and half wild;

As fleet a little fairy

As ever graced a dell,

Or frolicked in a blossom,

Is our sweet Rosabelle.

I wish that you could meet her;Her clear and happy eyesWould break upon your vision,Like light from Paradise!You’d know her in a moment—You couldn’t help it well—For there’s no otherlikeher—Our own, dear Rosabelle!

I wish that you could meet her;

Her clear and happy eyes

Would break upon your vision,

Like light from Paradise!

You’d know her in a moment—

You couldn’t help it well—

For there’s no otherlikeher—

Our own, dear Rosabelle!

Her brow is just as open,And sunny as the day;And curls are dancing o’er it,In their unfettered play.Ah! loveliness and beautyHave thrown their brightest spell,Around our darling blossom—Our witching Rosabelle!

Her brow is just as open,

And sunny as the day;

And curls are dancing o’er it,

In their unfettered play.

Ah! loveliness and beauty

Have thrown their brightest spell,

Around our darling blossom—

Our witching Rosabelle!

Her mouth is made for kisses,And when she lifts her face,She seems to ask the tribute,With her unconscious grace.Her lips are ripe and glowing,With just that pouting swellThat painters like to copy—Our peerless Rosabelle!

Her mouth is made for kisses,

And when she lifts her face,

She seems to ask the tribute,

With her unconscious grace.

Her lips are ripe and glowing,

With just that pouting swell

That painters like to copy—

Our peerless Rosabelle!

Her voice is soft and child-like,Yet gleeful as a bird’s;I love to list the cadenceOf her half-warbled words.Her laugh is like the musicOf some sweet, silver bell;I hear it in the passage,And know ’tis Rosabelle.

Her voice is soft and child-like,

Yet gleeful as a bird’s;

I love to list the cadence

Of her half-warbled words.

Her laugh is like the music

Of some sweet, silver bell;

I hear it in the passage,

And know ’tis Rosabelle.

A thing all life and sunshine,

A glad and happy child,

With spirits ever changing,

Half earnest and half wild;

As fleet a little fairy

As ever graced a dell,

Or frolicked in a blossom,

Is our sweet Rosabelle!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Lives of the Early British Dramatists. By Thomas Campbell, Leigh Hunt, George Darley and William Gifford. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume contains the biographies prefixed to Moxon’s library editions of the elder dramatists. The Life of Shakspeare, by Campbell, embodies all that is known of the poet, with some reasonable conjectures in regard to what is unknown, together with a short criticism on each of the plays. Though it has not that sustained excellence, either in composition or criticism, we might expect from the pen of such a writer, it still abounds in felicitous expressions and striking remarks, and, with the exception of De Quincy’s Life of Shakspeare, published in the Encyclopedia Britannica, is the most interesting biography of Shakspeare, for the general reader, we can bring to mind. A few of the criticisms are very lame, and all of them imperfect—but the last objection is a natural consequence of the limited space in which the life is compressed. The style glitters occasionally with those smart impertinences which Campbell affected in his later compositions. Some of these are exceedingly pleasant. Thus in speaking of Much Ado About Nothing, he remarks that he once knew such a pair as Benedick and Beatrice. “The lady was a perfect Beatrice; she railed hypocritically at wedlock before her marriage, and with bitter sincerity after it. She and her Benedick now live apart, but with entire reciprocity of sentiments, each devoutly wishing that the other may soon pass into a better world.” Again, in some slight observations on Coriolanus, which neither charity nor flattery could call criticism, there occurs a good hit at a common play-house profanation: “The enlightened public, in 1682, permitted Nahum Tate,the executioner of King David, to correct the plays of Shakspeare, and he laid his hangman hands on Coriolanus. . . . This mode of rewriting Shakspeare, was, for the time being, called correcting the saint of our stage. In like manner the Russians correct their patron saint when they find him deaf to their prayers for more favorable weather; they take him out in his wooden effigy and whip him soundly and publicly. I suspect they borrowed this custom from our mode of correcting Shakspeare.”

The best piece in the volume is Mr. Darley’s biography and criticism of Beaumont & Fletcher. The style is a little too much elaborated, and the opinions are not always free from prejudice, but the author writes like a poet, and really paints his subjects to the intellect of the reader—catching and conveying the spirit of the dramatists, as well as subjecting it to a high and manly criticism.

In most essays of this kind it is impossible to gain any notion of the author’s mind and individuality, amid all the words squandered on events of his life and the detail of his writings. This is illustrated in the biography of Ben Jonson, by Gifford. The “mountain belly and rocky face” of old Ben are hidden behind the form of his reviewer. It is like reading a snapping-turtle’s account of a whale, in which the said snapping-turtle contrives to make it out that the whale is just his size and conformation, and proves it by “undoubted facts.”

The account of Massinger and Ford is by Henry Nelson Coleridge, the son of the poet. It is rather brilliantly written, and contains much information relating to the time of James I. and Charles I. The lives of Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, are in Leigh Hunt’s most characteristic style of thought and expression, and consequently sparkle with many a bright fancy and jaunty impertinence. As his band of dramatists were gentlemen of easy virtue, both in literature and life, and violated all the decencies and moralities which keep society together in the most brilliant way imaginable, they are very fortunate in having a biographer who launches no thunderbolts of indignation, and indulges in no yelps of rhetorical horror.

This volume of “lives” is almost indispensable to the lover of the old dramatists, and gives on the whole, the best account of their moral and intellectual character which can be obtained. The publishers have done well in presenting them in such an elegant and available form.

Washington and his Generals. By J. T. Headley. New York: Baker & Scribner. Vol. I., 12mo.

Mr. Headley has already won a popularity by his work on Napoleon and his Marshals, which his present volume will much increase. It doubtless has many inaccuracies, and displays here and there too much of the earthquake and thunderbolt in the style, but the object which the author set before him to obtain he has brilliantly accomplished. This object we take to be, the representation of the most glorious portions of American history in such a style as to impress them vividly on the popular imagination. In reading his book, the old passions burn anew in the veins of the reader, and the old forms start up, as from the tomb, and fight all their battles o’er again. The volume is as entertaining as the most exciting novel, and will convey more real information than many histories. All we have to regret is, that the author does not produce his effects by simpler and subtler means, with a less convulsive strain upon his rhetoric, and less carelessness of minor excellencies. As his books will have a very large circulation, it becomes him to avoid faults of diction, which must exert a bad influence upon public taste. His fiery and picturesque manner would really be even more effective if unaccompanied by his faults of taste; and these faults in so able a writer, must be rather the result of haste than of design or natural defect. We should advise him to look at Alison less, and at Robertson more, and combine simplicity with vividness.

Memoirs of the Queens of France. By Mrs. Forbes Bush. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo.

These elegant volumes should have a place on every lady’s table. The authoress has treated those portions of her subject which most require softening, with that cunning delicacy peculiar to a woman’s mind. Most of these queens were associated in their empire over the hearts of their lords, with certain queens, belonging to what Mrs. Slipsop might call “the frail sect,” and the latter were more numerous than the former. Both queens and mistresses had no small share in the government of France, especially after it became an absolute monarchy. Frederick the Great said that the “petticoat government of the 18th century was yet to be written.” Mrs. Forbes has done much to supply this defect in the case of France, for a number of centuries.

Hill-Side and Border Sketches: with Legends of the Cheviots and Lammermuir. By W. H. Maxwell. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This is a very pleasant, readable book, evincing great animal spirits, if not wit, and written in a vein of delightful recklessness. The author, we believe, is a soldier, and a military air is around every thing he writes. He fires into the ranks of his readers uncounted quantities of small, hissing shot, peppers them now and then with an epigram, and anon charges them with a troop of well-compacted, screaming sentences. In every page there is implied a most edifying notion of his own rhetorical prowess, and a cavalier carelessness of contrary opinions. We wish his book success.

Holy Living and Dying. By the Rt. Rev. Jeremy Taylor, D. D. Boston: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is a cheap and excellent edition of one of the most beautiful and eloquent works in the whole compass of theological literature. Taylor has been called “the Shakspeare of divines.” The extent of his learning, the strength of his understanding, and the wonderful richness and copiousness of his imagination, were all penetrated by a spirit of holiness as remarkable for its sweetness as its intensity. Of all divines he is the best expression of heavenly-mindedness; and his Holy Living and Dying is the most perfect expression of his leading grace.

Sermons of Consolation. By F. W. P. Greenwood, D. D., Minister of King’s Chapel, Boston. Third edition. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is one of the best volumes of sermons for family reading we ever read; and its rapid passage to a third edition, shows how soon it has taken hold of the public mind. Dr. Greenwood’s character had a sweetness, sanctity, and gentleness, which especially fitted him to carry light and consolation into the house of mourning. His sermons breathe the very spirit of peace and holiness. The style is exquisite. The volume cannot be read without having its tone of serious thought and devout aspiration insinuated into the most worldly mind, by “a process of smoothness and delight.”

Prevention Better Than Cure: or the Moral Wants of the World We Live In. By Mrs. Ellis. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The object of this book is indicated by the title, and its mode of treatment by the general character of the authoress. The volume is laden with valuable suggestions, which, if carried out by those who have the guardianship of the young, would save the world from a vast mass of its social evils. One of the best indications of the age, is the interest taken in all the influences which go to mould individual character, and the severe scrutiny to which they are subjected. Mrs. Ellis’s book is a good illustration of a general disposition, and we trust it will fall into the right hands.

Tancred, or the New Crusade. A Novel. By B. D’Israeli, M. P. Phila.: Carey & Hart.

Of all the political and literary charlatans of the day, D’Israeli is the ablest, most brilliant, and most impudent. If any of our readers disagree with this opinion, we refer them to the work which has provoked it. To attempt a sober answer to its leading opinions would make the disputant as ridiculous as the author. The reader silently consigns them to contempt, or passes them lightly over for the other portions of the novel. The whole book is made up of foppery; but the foppery of sentiment, satire, and description, is infinitely more readable than the foppery of politics and religion.

A Year of Consolation. By Fanny Kemble Butler. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is one of the most attractive volumes of the season. It is written in Mrs. Butler’s most brilliant style, and is spiced with just enough personality to make it piquant. That portion of her journal relating to Italy is especially readable. The side allusions to this country are very characteristic. Every page of the book bears the stamp of a strong, proud, frank mind, heedless of what Mrs. Grundy will say, and fearlessly expressing even its whims and caprices. There is a kind of impatient daring even in the use of figurative language, and analogies are sometimes brought violently together, as much from passion as fancy. A reader goes through the book at rail-road speed.

The Cadet de Colobrières. Translated from the French of Madame Charles Reybaud. Phila.: Carey & Hart.

This is an excellent novel; interesting as a narrative; showing great artistic skill in composition and grouping, and unblemished by the faults and indecencies usually connected with the very idea of a French romance.

Captivity of Napoleon at St. Helena. By General Count Montholon, the Emperor’s Companion in Exile and Testamentary Executor. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8mo.

To those who take an interest in Napoleon, either as a general or statesman, this work will be of absorbing interest. Napoleon, at St. Helena, is even a greater man than Napoleon at Marengo or Austerlitz.

A Voyage up the River Amazon, Including a Residence at Para. By William H. Edwards. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is an exceedingly interesting account of a region which is but little known, but which is truly what the author styles it, the “garden of the world.” The book deserves an extensive circulation. It is sure to amuse those who are indifferent to its value in other respects.

The Progress of Ethnology, an Account of Recent Archæological, Philological and Geographical Researches in Various Parts of the Globe, Tending to Elucidate the Physical History of Man. By John Russell Bartlett. New York: Bartlett & Welford.

In this pamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages, Mr. Bartlett has compressed the information of as many volumes. It evinces the most extensive knowledge, and as fine judgment, and is altogether a work which no scholar can be without.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 54, ears was too ==> earsandwas too

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 1, July 1847]

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